


Right Hand Rule

by witchsoup



Series: Catching Flies [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/M, Fluff, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 01:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19861135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchsoup/pseuds/witchsoup
Summary: "I don't think you really understand what ironic means, Draco." she says, scrolling idly through her Instagram feed. "You spent twenty quid on a towel that looks like a kilt. Nothing that requires that much effort is ironic."





	Right Hand Rule

_July_

Narcissa insists he get his licence the moment it becomes legal. The drive between Wiltshire and London isn't all that formidable, and he's done the train journey up and down to Edinburgh scores of times, blunt-nosed silver and red carriages skiting up and down the country like an air hockey puck. His railcard gathers dust in the recesses of his wallet's inner pocket. He'd rather pay full price than have that fringe see the light of day. She believes, for whatever reason, paranoia stemmed from scorched family photos and dead names, that he'll leave her to moulder in their mausoleum of a country house. That was even before his father moved to the city permanently.

It's his father's money, anyway.

This car was a seventeenth birthday present. That does nothing to deter Pansy, to whom nothing is sacred, from putting her feet up on the dashboard.

"I need to piss."

"You needed to piss an hour ago. Which is why we stopped, and then spent twenty minutes getting a fucking panini-"

"-and frappucinos," pipes up Daphne from the back seat.

"You were the one who insisted they find you a pink novelty towel from the back," snaps Pansy.

"If I got any other colour than pink, it wouldn't have been ironic, would it?"

"I don't think you really understand what ironic means, Draco." she says, scrolling idly through her Instagram feed. "You spent twenty quid on a towel that looks like a kilt. Nothing that requires that much effort is ironic."

The bright blue sign ahead, closing fast, points them toward yet another Little Chef. As he blows past it, Pansy lets out an indignant squawk.

He simply turns up the music.

_September_

"What are you studying?" the girl asks, clutching at his neck, sharpened nails pressed discomfitingly into his artery.

"Political science," he replies, leaning towards her and accidentally sloshing his pint over the lip of his plastic cup.

It's still a novelty. The black stamp on the inside of his wrist is a faded smudge, the perfect twin of the one on Pansy's hand. Her long bell sleeves cover the bright red mark on her other wrist.

She won't be eighteen until November.

The girl, fuck knows what her name is, though she's apparently best friends with Daphne - they have a symbiotic Instagram relationship, of which Daphne is definitively the shark or similar - pulls a face.

"But that's for wankers."

Draco is fairly certain the glass in her oversized spectacles is purely for show. A number of school counselling sessions have taught him not to judge, however.

Successful men have to have a skeleton or two, or else the chain of succession would simply lock into place. Blackmail is the gentleman's alternative to simply having someone off the CEO. His father has always respected that. Know thy enemy. Especially when one's enemy is one's own proclivity for class A drugs.

"Of course. I went to private school. It's part of the curriculum. I took it at A level. That, Latin, and Introduction to Embezzlement."

Her eyes are glassy, palm damp as it slips down the side of his neck, resting against his chest. Bowing her head, she sways on the spot, and even over the sound of Bohemian Rhapsody blasting from the speakers above the bar, he can tell she's trying to speak.

"Pardon?" he shouts in her ear.

A scowl mars her face as she begins, "I said, I'm going to be-"

She slaps a hand over her mouth, a tremor rattling through her body. He sees rather than hears her retch, shoulders heaving. Pulling back, he turns into the press of the crowd that stretches from where they're standing to the toilets.

Half a second later, she vomits all over his shoes.

Toilet paper turns to mush in his hands as he wipes down the toe of his designer Chelsea boots. He and Pansy actually bought them in Chelsea. According to her, they make him look like Harry Styles, minus the constellation of disjointed tattoos. After a drunken mistake in Mykonos, he'd never consider getting another.

Fluorescent lighting does nothing for his pallor. The smell of secondhand cider threatens to unearth the contents of his own stomach, although he's barely had anything to eat since that shitty overpriced kebab in the past twelve hours. Eating is cheating.

Draco scrubs at his hands, shoes upturned over the radiator and socks damp from droplets of what he hopes has been shaken off freshly washed hands rather than... other things. Fixing himself with a stern look, he moves his lips in silence, unwilling to disturb the occupant of the cubicle in the corner, from whom he's heard snores for the past five minutes.

That's when he catches her eye in the mirror.

"Excuse me? Are you waiting?"

His only answer is a gaping mouth, until he gathers his wits enough to face her.

"You know this is a men's toilet, right?"

The girl huffs, dark curls bouncing as she crosses her arms.

"You know this is a gender-neutral toilet, right?" she mimics. "Honestly, does nobody read the welcome pack?"

Draco does his best not to shuffle his socked feet at her tone.

"There are urinals," he says, weakly, gesturing to the wall.

"Look, are you waiting, or not?"

Absurdly, he gives her half a bow as he mumbles in the negative, gesturing with a little flourish of his arm for her to carry on. She disappears into the cubicle, and he switches on the hand dryer in an attempt to drown out any sound.

Patting his shoes dry with a paper towel, he slips them back on, smoothing his t-shirt. His preference for long sleeves is an exercise in self-sabotage in a place like this, where it's rumoured that sweat starts to drip from the ceiling around two am. Discreetly, he stretches, checking for sweat patches.

The sound of a bolt scraping has him hurriedly running a hand through his hair, grabbing another paper towel for some mise-en-scene.

She emerges, looking faintly irritated that he's still there. Draco has as much right to be there as she does, he tells himself. He paid forty quid for a fresher's pass, just like she did.

"So what are you studing?"

The girl raises an eyebrow.

"Maths," she says, shortly.

"Where are you from?"

"Kent."

"What's your name?"

"What's _your_ name?"

She turns, slapping one hand on the underside of the hand dryer, which remains resolutely silent. Reaching for a paper towel, her hand falls to her side when she realises the dispenser is empty. Draco promptly drops his unused square into the bin.

"Draco Malfoy. Political science. Wiltshire." He offers his hand to her.

The girl stares at him for a moment, the only sound in the room the soft snores still coming from the locked stall. She wipes her still damp hands on her jeans, and shakes his hand.

Draco tries valiantly not to stare at the dark imprint of her bra visible through her bright white t-shirt. It looks like maroon. It looks like lace.

"Hermione. Hermione Granger."

_October_

The day is bright and cold, autumn leaves littering the gutters, pushed into great clumps by the flow of dirty water. He was up before the crack of dawn. It's October. Dawn isn't exactly early, but five am? Five am is early.

Theo told him university life was all pizzas and beer, though the closest Theo has ever been to higher education was turning up to Friday afternoon PE with a half-smoked blunt stowed in his shower bag. Pushing his interlocked hands above his head, Draco winces as his aching muscles twinge. He's been rowing since he was twelve, and he knows what it is to throw up in the middle of a circuit before he's even eaten breakfast. The difference now is that Marcus Flint is around to see him do it.

Trekking up the hill to the library, he passes a group of smokers, pausing for a moment to inhale. Narcissa started smoking "back when it was fashionable," which in other words means before the legal age, but he's never asked. Now, she slathers her face in whatever her circle of trophy wives recommends and only smokes on Christmas day.

It reminds him of his mother almost as much as the smell of Chanel perfume. Pansy refuses to wear it, no matter how many bottles he's bought for her over the years. Oedipal, she says. He's learned to stick to cash gifts.

Across from the permanently glitching revolving door, a table is laden with baked goods, space heaters strategically positioned, the stars around which frozen volunteers orbit.

Sliding his wallet from his pocket, Draco cups his hand, pouring out his change and proceeding to drop most of it. He does a double take when that girl, the one from the union, slaps a pound coin on the table.

"You dropped this, Malfoy."

"Two rice crispie cakes please, Granger."

She smiles politely, adjusting her winter hat. 

"You remembered my name."

"I did. What could a maths student," he pauses, raising his eyebrows and she scoffs, "be raising money for? New calculators? Or wait, a shiny new slide rule?"

"Thermal clothes and blankets for refugees, actually."

"Well shit, I'll take a cookie as well, then."

"Why is a politics student at the library at this hour? Surely you don't need a textbook? You can access Donald Trump's Twitter on your phone, you know."

"Mione, we've got no more fivers," says a lanky redhead in a lumpy grey hat. His hand, large-knuckled and spattered in freckles, curves possessively around Granger's hip.

She turns, biting her lip.

"Did you check with-"

"Padma said to ask you."

"But did she look in the-"

"Float tin's totally cleaned out."

"I'm going to have to go back to the bank, can you cope for twenty minutes? Greengrass is due to get here in fifteen minutes, but I haven't heard from her since last week." Her brow furrows. "She didn't respond to my Doodle poll."

The redhead picks up a slice of tiffin, nodding slowly.

"I can walk you," blurts Draco.

Swallowing forcefully, Granger's boyfriend slides his gaze from Draco's spotless trainers to the careful sweep of his hairline. Wiping his chocolate covered hand down the front of his fleece, he offers his hand for Draco to shake.

"Ron Weasley. How d'you know Hermione?"

The corner of Granger's mouth ticks up, and she pulls a pair of gloves apart before slipping them on and wrestling a woollen hat over the topmost layer of her curls.

"I found Draco undressed and covered in vomit in the union bathroom during Freshers. He was hopelessly lost. Looking for the gents toilets, he said."

"I was shoeless, not undressed. It wasn't even my vomit." He scowls. "I just happening to be in the firing line of someone who couldn't handle their drink."

"Weren't you on your way to the library, Malfoy? What are you going to the bank for? Checking they've got your gold bars stowed safely away?"

"I was looking to make a real donation, actually."

Her face immediately brightens.

"Ron, we won't be long. Ask Padma if you need any help." Placing a hand on Ron's chest, she turns her face up to press a kiss to his pink cheek. "You've got chocolate on your face, did you know?"

Bending to grab a metal tin from under the table, she rifles through the coin bags and grabs a couple of twenty pound notes. She tucks the money inside her coat pocket.

Following on as she slips past, Draco turns for a final look at Weasley, the remnants of his tiffin in hand. The redness on the tips of his ears has him smirking, just a bit.

"What brings you out this early?"

"Training for the rowing club. Race season starts in April, but we're out on the water all the way through winter."

"Of course you row. Oxford or Cambridge?"

"That's a very loaded question, Granger. I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"Oxford, obviously."

"I'm a Cambridge man, myself. Doesn't mean I can't say their performance this year wasn't utterly pathetic."

"You're disgustingly upper class, has anyone every told you that? You look like a Ralph Lauren advert."

"I did a bit of modelling for Burberry when I was six or seven. Personally, I think all that taupe washed me out, but Daphne's mother disagreed."

"I was surprised to hear you knew Daphne. She never stops complaining about her flatmates. Apparently you're solely to blame for her missing ten days of class so far."

"Just because I drag myself out of bed quicker than she can doesn't make me responsible for her making it to her nine am. How the fuck did you get Daphne volunteering to sell baked goods in the freezing cold? Unless there's a ski lift involved she typically doesn't step out the front door if it's below five degrees."

"Ron met her at a department pot luck thing. He offered her one of his mum's brownies, she thought it had weed in it, there was a whole fuss."

"What, she grassed on him?"

"Hilarious," she deadpans, though she smiles almost imperceptibly, for a moment. "No, she got upset because there wasn't any."

"How does that leave her touting millionaire's shortbread outside the library?"

"She messaged him to ask if she could have some more. Apparently Molly's brownies were the only things that would get her through her latest breakup. The only thing that would get her any more was to show up this morning, and she offered to help."

Draco hefts his bag further up his shoulder, patting his pocket to pull out his phone.

"Pansy got her through her latest breakup. Pansy and a lot of vodka cranberry."

Flicking through his photo reel, he stops on a picture of the two of them curled up on the same chintz armchair, a share bag of Doritos clutched to Daphne's chest.

"The perils of pursuing the entire boat club simultaneously. We tend to talk to each other, occasionally. It was only a matter of time before three of them described their girlfriend's rather unique approach to fellatio and realised they were the one and same."

"I've been promised a stampede of sales. I don't particularly care how she gets them."

"If I were you, I'd care more about leaving my boyfriend alone with her."

Hermione's voice is cold when she says, "I don't feel the need to compete with other women for the attention of my own boyfriend."

"Good," he scoffs. "Daph plays to win. Maybe if you roll over she'll get bored."

"What makes you the expert?" Her hands are shoved deep into her pockets, and there's tension in her shoulders. "Maybe she's legitimately interested in the plight of Syrian refugees."

"Honestly, I'm surprised she'd set her sights on someone like Weasley-"

"What is your problem, do you hear yourself-"

"-but the likelihood of her chasing a ginger is relatively astronomical compared to her having compassion for her fellow man. She and Pansy don't have normal human feelings, Granger. They have Schadenfreude, and they have the inhuman confidence of a fresh manicure, but that's about it."

"Has anyone ever told you that having female friends doesn't make you exempt from being a sexist arsehole?"

"I'm not saying that because they're women, Granger, I'm saying that because they may as well be a different fucking species-"

"Daphne seems like a perfectly sane person-"

"The easiest route to a happy life is for the mistress to befriend the wife, didn't you know? Very Romanov of her."

"I have to get back to the stall," she begins, moving towards the perspex window and the waiting teller.

"What about your donation, Granger?"

"Give it to Daphne. I'm at least reasonably certain she won't try to keep it for herself."

Her face is transformed when she turns to the woman behind the window, a smile warming her face.

Draco frowns, worrying at his bottom lip and stowing his father's card back into the pocket of his Nike shorts.

"That's what you think."

_November_

**16:48** do u exfoliate

 **17:02** what the fuck why

 **17:03** nm

She hands the Amazon package to him along with two bottles: one filled with Grey Goose and the other, much smaller, filled with fake tan.

"Find your shittiest pair of pants and meet me in the bathroom half cut in twenty minutes. I'm expecting a call, and don't want to be disturbed before then."

"Pansy, what-"

She grabs at his chin, black acrylic nails biting into his skin.

"Nothing I haven't seen before, darling."

Her hair has been curled and teased into something that is three times the volume of her usual sleek bob, makeup heavy and pale. The corset and fish nets are a Pansy Halloween classic, although typically her costume is less imaginative: Daphne's insistence they go as as a group has severely limited her options in the lingerie sphere.

Their bathroom is still full of steam, frigid and starkly white, one enormous three wick Diptyque candle perched precariously on the rim of the bath. Pansy crouches unsteadily in stilettos at his feet, one hand braced on his inner thigh and the other rubbing furiously at his knees with a fake tan mit. 

"You spend all this time at the bloody gym wanking each other off-"

"-I don't-"

"I've seen the onesies, Draco-"

"They're not onesies, Pans-"

"You may as well get some benefit out of it, I mean, there must be someone in this city who wants to fuck you."

She wobbles for a moment, carefully tucking one long pale leg under the other before turning her attention to his other leg.

"What about that girl from that event, that one we went to on a Tuesday? There was, like... I want to say cheese? And lots of people looking boring."

"Who, Padma Patil?"

"Yes. Snotty accent, good shoes."

 _"She_ has a snotty accent?"

"Well, yes. She has the unfortunate tendency to, like, guffaw-"

"It's called laughter, Pans. It's for people who haven't discovered Botox yet."

She pulls back with a smile like the devil and takes a sip of white wine spritzer from a glittery plastic cup, complete with pearlescent straw.

"You look ridiculous. And hot. But in a ridiculous way."

He hops up on the rim of the bath, surveys himself as best he can in the mirror above the sink, and grimaces.

"Where is the rest of my costume?"

Again, she smirks, makes a show of bending to blow out her scented candle, and then moves towards the door.

"Your Gucci trainers are mostly gold, right?"

He feels like one of those girls who wear a trench coat over underwear as he makes the half-mile trek to the student union. Draco has been assured the bouncers will let him through the door based purely on the strength of their ensemble costume. Daphne's hair has been artfully teased, and her eyelashes are fake and fluffy, artificially black against the demure white of her cotton underwear. Blaise is fully dressed, oversized fake glasses swallowing up his sharp cheekbones.

The decorations are abundant, though low-quality. Grabbing a handful of Starburst from a bowl guarded by a polystyrene skeleton, Draco fishes in his pockets for coins for the coat check. Mercifully, Pansy had also presented him with a metallic golden bum bag that she insisted had been listed on ASOS as a fanny pack, so he may as well call it by name.

Scanning the handwritten sign which reads £1 per item, he drums his fingers on the counter as he waits for whoever is running the coat check to relieve him of the last of his dignity.

"Excuse me?" he calls over the music that is bleeding through from the bar.

Raucous curls emerge from below the counter, sprayed white and stiff. Hermione Granger smiles at him from behind circular glasses, and pulls a ticket book from the pocket of her white lab coat.

"Lie through your teeth, Janet," she says with a smile. "How many items?"

"Um, just one-"

"Make that four," interrupts Daphne, piling three more heavy coats on top of Hermione's money box, which rattles with a precarious sound. "Hi Hermione! Are you here with Ron?"

Her posture stiffens, and Draco notices for the first time that her breast pockets are filled with coloured vials, arranged in the order of a scientifically accurate rainbow. Of course.

"I think he's upstairs with Harry. He's Frankenstein, I'm sure you won't miss him-"

"Draco, I'll get a round in," she says, dropping a quick kiss on his cheek before tottering away on white high heels.

There is something almost crumpled about Granger's expression, but she swaps the coats for tickets and gently reminds him to keep them safe, or else they'll be waiting all night to fish in the lost property.

"What are you drinking, Hermione Granger?"

"Oh, I'm not drinking- I have to take over from Cho at the apple bobbing in about an hour and I have to be sober enough to stop people from drowning in cider."

"Vodka coke it is. Don't move," says Draco.

As he turns, he hears her say, "I won't," in a small voice.

When he goes to push open the door to the bar she calls out to him.

"Rum. I- I like rum."

_December_

Pansy and Astoria scream-sing the final note of Mariah Carey's 'All I Want for Christmas is You' to the general applause of the crowd in the flat, as 'Fireplace for Your Home' crackles merrily on the television.

His green jumper is subtly festive, prancing reindeer forming white stripes across his chest. The pitcher of egg nog he carries isn't his drink of choice, but Daphne insisted despite Pansy's newfound devotion to veganism. It has given her a new reason to be rude to strangers on Twitter, which seems to relieve some of the stress of the end of term exams.

When Ronald Weasley turns up at their door with a tray of frozen party food, Daphne jumps up to welcome him inside. Draco retreats to the kitchen when he sees that Weasley is alone, and closes the cocktail recipe window on his phone. He is undisturbed for a moment longer, and is able to take only a couple of sips of his rum and ginger concoction before Theo announces that the onion bhajis have to come out of the oven.

_May_

"You have to put sticks down." Draco turns at the sound of her voice. "So you don't burn the grass."

Granger is carrying a Tupperware container filled with fresh fruit, and a woven Bag for Life sits at her feet, overflowing with hot dog buns. He can even spy a small squeezy bottle of ketchup.

"You came- well, extraordinarily prepared."

"I was a Brownie. Not exactly Boy Scouts, but you know. I promise I will do my best, and all that. Not so much emphasis on tying knots."

"I hope the Brownies taught you about cooking sausages." Draco asks, tearing open a plastic packet of Waitrose pork sausages (with Ale). "Because if I'm being perfectly honest, I have no idea."

She makes a face.

"Don't look at me. I'm really more of a burger person. Better surface area."

He fumbles with the coals for a moment, trying and failing to flick his lighter on.

"What are your plans for summer, Granger? Exploring the wonders of Devonshire?"

Weasley maintains Devonshire's superiority over Wiltshire at any given opportunity.

"No, actually. I'm going to New York for the majority of it- you know those inner-city summer camps? The weather has got to be better than here."

"And the company?" he asks, forcing his tone to be light, almost comical.

She pauses for a moment, eyes resting on where Weasley and Potter wrestle over a football.

"Maybe."

_September_

"Why am I even fucking going to this thing. I don't even like her."

"It'll be fun, Pansy." Daphne fluffs her hair once more in the hall mirror, pouting and turning her face from side to side. "What else would you be doing on a Tuesday night?"

"Oh, I don't know. Watching Bake Off, writing coursework, scrubbing the toilet-"

"Just think, Pansy. What are you going to say about Potter's terrible clothes when you get there? In fact, what are you going to say about Potter's little girlfriend's clothes-"

Pansy interrupts Draco with a scoff.

"You're just as bad as each other." At Daphne's confused look, Pansy laughs delightedly. "You're like vultures, circling a limping animal."

The moment they clamber out of their Uber at the bar, Pansy dismisses the request to tip their driver, and throws Draco a scathing look when he protests.

"He was leering at me. I felt unsafe, Draco. No. Two stars."

Weasley is already startlingly drunk when they walk in, briefly embracing Pansy before he moves to kiss Daphne on the top of her head, handing her a drink. Potter watches, his forehead wrinkled in concern.

"Where's the birthday girl, Potter?" He lifts a bag, marbled in blue and gold, stuffed with blue tissue paper. "I think it's only fair she should at least get one present per three guests."

"She's not coming," he replies, taking an extended draw of his beer.

"But- but it's supposed to be a birthday party."

"Try telling Ron that."

Weasley stumbles, accidentally pulling on Daphne's hair until she grabs at her scalp and squeaks indignance.

"They split up. Not even two hours ago- she wouldn't let me up to her flat or anything. Told me if Ron was hellbent on going out that I should keep an eye on him... and she wasn't wrong."

Draco runs a hand through his hair, and then pulls out his phone, pausing at the Uber search bar.

"Where is she now?"

Potter rolls his eyes.

"Where do you think?"

He steps out of the taxi, diving back across the seat at the last moment to retrieve the gift bag, struggling to balance everything in his arms and shut the door behind him. He's defeated by the turnstile at the library door, piling his belongings on top of the metal cylinder and swiping his student card.

Maths textbooks are on the fourth floor, but the best desk space is on the fifth: it takes him fifteen minutes of wandering before he finds her tucked between the shelves, a book in each hand.

It looks like she's reading the dust covers until he takes a few steps towards her and realises that her eyes don't track across the page, and it looks like she's been crying.

"Happy birthday, Granger."

She jumps, presses one book to her chest as if it will slow her heart rate.

"What are you doing here?"

"Twitter was down." She smiles, and he holds up his packages. "I brought presents."

Leading him back to her desk, she turns to look over her shoulder every so often, her confusion evident. The first thing he does is drag over a second chair, and begins to unpack the McDonald's bag, which is valiantly lukewarm despite the fifteen-minute taxi journey.

"Birthday burgers. And a gift."

"You didn't have to get me anything-"

"Very rarely do I get to buy any gift that isn't small, plastic, and printed with its monetary value. Please, you would be validating me as a human being by accepting it."

The rustle of the tissue paper is quickly silenced as she uncovers the gift, and smiles brightly.

"A Filofax... but why?"

She begins to flip through the pages, pausing when she sees the Post-it note on the very first Contact page, completed with his phone number.

"You're a very busy woman. And also, that page comes out if you don't want it ruining the whole book-"

"Thank you, Draco."

He smiles, picking up a handful of chips to have something to do with his hands.

"I'm sure I can pencil you in," she says with a smile.


End file.
